Can you be a tourist in your hometown?

We wandered from Saratoga to Oneonta (NY) to visit Josh and Ruth (and brush up on our Trivial Pursuit skills).  Did you know that Ali McGraw almost got the female lead in Chinatown but didn't because she was married to the director and ran away with Steve McQueen?  Neither did I, but I amazed even myself with that correct answer, solved by the magic of long lost connections in my brain.  The Baby Guinnesses that Josh made were pretty good, too.



Then on to New York City for Saturday night. Susan found tickets to a show, and I snagged a sweet deal on a comfortable hotel in the Financial District called Club Quarters. The financial district was deserted for the weekend, but we were a brisk walk away from Greenwich Village, and could've done a 10 minute subway ride if we needed to.

Although I grew up in New York City, I never got to know lower Manhattan very well. And it's changed a lot since the early 70s. Now, when I return I'm a tourist.

We were in dire of a walk, as we'd spent a lot of time in the car. It was a couple of mile stroll from the Financial District to the Village. Not wanting to get lost, we headed straight up Broadway, but then noticed throngs of people packed into a couple of blocks of Canal Street. Vendors hawking their wares behind tables, and some wandering the streets with suitcases. The stores were packed as well. By the whispered offers of watches and other unknown items, most of this must be hot or contraband in some way. How this survives is an interesting sociological question.

Tired of this, we turned north on Greene Street, watching a stylishly dressed (as if for a night club, yet it was only 4 in the afternoon) young man and woman explode out of a minivan and start walking quickly up Greene Street. Upon noticing a police officer, they quickly changed direction and went the other way, out of sight. Susan and I looked each other, laughed, and starting pondering what story we had stumbled into the middle of.

Further up Greene Street, we hit store after store of high end furniture and home furnishings. Of things I can't imagine anyone would want in their homes. Things so stylish as to be ridiculous. A block from the raucous scene on Canal Street.

We learned a lesson about dinner, too. It was Saturday night. We were chilly. Tired. Hungry. And we had no plan. The place Susan had discovered in one of her archival food magazines that she had brought along (for purposes of extracting thef good recipes and tossing the rest) was still popular (though the magazine was from 2006) and promised a 2 hour wait. Out into the street we were left with choosing among the vast selection of restaurants in that part of Manhattan. It was Manhattan. I wanted a good meal. I wanted to be a bit choosy. A plain, red-sauce Italian place wasn't going to do. Another nearby Italian place seemed overpriced. And empty at 7:30 on Saturday night, which didn't seem like a good sign. (I always feel sorry for the restaurateurs that have empty restaurants. How can they change that? It's a vicious circle). Finally, we realized that we recognized the restaurant we were looking at. We were in the same part of SoHo that we had visited last year at about the same time. And there were several restaurants we had identified, yet didn't have time to visit. And one of them had room. So in we went. Had a decent, if not memorable meal. And were satisfied. A French bistro, presaging our upcoming trip.

The next day was a short visit with Mama in Riverdale, including a trip up to Epsteins to savor New York's finest deli food.



Finally, we descended upon Susan's sister and her family on Long Island to prepare for a morning departure to....St. Lucia!